


Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes

by BenedictCumberwumberbatch



Series: Sherlock Hurt/Angst [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Feels, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Feels, M/M, Not!Gay!Sherlock, Onesided, not really - Freeform, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BenedictCumberwumberbatch/pseuds/BenedictCumberwumberbatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And he left a note, a note on his phone. That was what caused the most distress, the distress to Molly Hooper, his friend. Ha, his friend, Sherlock chuckled as he pulled back the fluffy beige jumper and lined the needle up with his Brachial artery and pushed it in, wincing as he felt the needle go in. The familiar feeling was returning, his memories of his sorrow when he had used before, but that was going to help him now, and he looked up and saw, John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes

Sherlock huffed and sat down on his seat, sighing as he looked around his room, their room, that room. There were far too many memories here. Too much thoughts and hushed words that /they/ had spoken whilst they were together in this room. Funny, this is were it all started. The living room in 221b Baker Street, where John and Sherlock held their first plausible conversation, the first exchange in cheesy grins and the first case was 'found' in this room, quite literally for John. Finding that pink travel case.  
  
That was the case that John used to leave, ironic really. An army man of such high standards would use a female, a dead female's, pink travel case, to store all those jumpers that John had. All apart from that jumper, which Sherlock loathed. The jumper he held in his hands now, tears dripping from his eyes, leaking like a broken water pipe onto the soft beige jumper that he loathed. Loathed, no, loved. He loved that jumper. He loved how John would wear it, being all cuddly and adorable. The fact John grinned so happily and his beautiful face scrunched up when he saw the decapitated head in his fridge.  
  
And his hedgehog-like movements, snuffling around the flat when he was looking for Jam, wanting anything sweet to cure his hunger. Making tea obediently, saving Sherlock, like a dog would save his master. John would always be Sherlock's pet, his loved one. Sherlock would almost go as far to say, his partner. But no, John was leaving. John was leaving without Sherlock.  
  
And so, this sad man, this detective with no case sat there, the few drops of silver tears leaking from his green eyes turned into waterfalls of liquid crystal, the woollen jumper now being stained with tears that Sherlock had never shed before. Not like this. And, without realising it, Sherlock had slipped that small jumper on. Smelling John's sent that was leaving so soon, that had stormed out on Sherlock.  
  
The fight. T'was bigger than John and Sherlock had witnessed before, even though they had fought over many things, this was undoubtedly the most unique. They had fought, about their 'work'.   
  
But none of that mattered anymore. Sherlock could hardly remember what had happened between himself and his once loyal blogger, all he could really remember was the hate that he had witnessed, pouring from John as Sherlock's own words slithered to infect this hobbit of a man. That Sherlock's tongue was silver, though it hurt, he only told the truth.  
  
John had left in a hurry, throwing all of his clothes into that pink case, glaring at Sherlock and managing to knock over a few test-tubes and his microscope, being Sherlock he hesitated before apologising and putting a few £20 notes on the table and storming off again, causing Sherlock to chuckle. He knew John would be back. John wouldn't leave Sherlock, they needed each other far too much. He was sure of that. He needed John.  
  
But again, John disappointed Sherlock, leaving. The next he had heard, Mycroft was texting Sherlock, it had first been casual 'banter' as he first wrote, but once the direction of their conversation had turned, Sherlock was shocked, reading through his texts several times, their conversation following the same usual pattern;  
  
[Hello Brother -MH]  
[Hello Mycroft. Bored of Athena then? -SH]  
[You know that's a classified question Sherlock. -MH]  
[What do you want? -SH]  
[Just to see how my dear brother is. -MH]  
[Oh be quiet. You've probably started another war and want John to join you. -SH]  
[Oh no, John has already been sent back to his post in Afghanistan. -MH]  
  
And Sherlock sat there. Staring at those texts, before he returned to the state we know him to have started in, sitting there, sobbing and glancing down at John's jumper.  
  
Returning to back Sherlock, sitting there with John's jumper on, he saw something. Something that he didn't even have to consider, he knew it was inevitable. He was a genius, ignorance was pure bliss, but he could never be ignorant. His mind palace had already been broken open, his dungeon, basement had been snapped open by John, all those things that people had said, whom he had cared for and felt were friends, all the things that they said without thinking, that Sherlock felt was hurtful or painful flew open.  
  
They were like snakes, poisoning his mind as Sherlock curled up, sniffling sadly he grabbed this small syringe. A small needle which he had taken from St Barts a while ago, whilst he was still the drug addict that had OD'd so many times that his friend, John. No. Not John, John wasn't around then. Greg Lestrade. He had OD'd so many times that his friend then, Greg Lestrade was constantly in hospital, holding Sherlock's hand, keeping Sherlock asleep or awake, whatever was best.  
  
It came down to this in the long run though. This needle and Sherlock, like going round a carousel, Sherlock was back at the beginning, but all good things must come to an end. He would always end back where he was, with a needle in his arm and tears down his face. They would take him to hospital, but they would know it's too late, that Sherlock would have already gone from this consciousness and sunk back to where he was a long time ago. He knew Mycroft would cry silently, that Greg wouldn't cry but would simply sit there, thinking, fiddling with his pen before remembering how much Sherlock hated that tedious action and would stop, before breaking down into a few sobs, Anderson hearing and feeling guilty but not saying anything, Donovan sighing with content at that moment.   
  
And John, John, John. John wouldn't know till it was too late. He would find out much later than anyone else, and he would sit there. His heart turning back from the concrete lock that he had made it into and would sit there, in silence for so long before going back to his duties as a doctor. But even then, John wouldn't be focused. He would mess up, his supervisor, his commander would dismiss John, once more ending back up in London. Ms Hudson would offer John the flat back and John would take it, only realising the mistake he made once he moved back in and saw the test-tubes still smashed along the table and the microscope still holding the pile of £20 notes that John had placed there, and then he would remember the argument that had been the starting point of this all. And it would kill him inside.  
  
So this, Sherlock holding that needle was a pivot point for several people's lives. They would be able to move on, but they would always remember him. They would remember that uncaring, unfeeling Sherlock Holmes whom so many hated. And all that caused this was one push of a needle and a small gap in the liquid. Inside that small amount of drug, that ecstasy that he felt was one time bomb. A heart attack. A death.  
  
And he left a note, a note on his phone. That was what caused the most distress, the distress to Molly Hooper, his friend. Ha, his friend, Sherlock chuckled as he pulled back the fluffy beige jumper and lined the needle up with his Brachial artery and pushed it in, wincing as he felt the needle go in. The familiar feeling was returning, his memories of his sorrow when he had used before, but that was going to help him now, and he looked up and saw, John.   
  
Of course it wasn't really his best friend, it was his mind. He saw whom he wanted to see most at this moment of distress, like a signal, this mind game kneeled down and put his hand on the tip of the syringe, pushing the liquid (and therefore the bubble of air which would cause Sherlock to have a minute or so of life, before his imminent death occurred) into Sherlock's blood stream. And Sherlock winced, tears streaming down his cheeks as he glanced up at John, whom himself was smiling somewhat, and as Sherlock blinked, the minute slowing down to an eternity, his senses were slowly dissolving, his vision finally blurring and passing out. The last thing to go was his hearing. And that's when he heard it, John's voice, so real he couldn't differentiate it, whether it was really John, or his mind playing tricks on him, but either way, it made him smile a little as he quickly died. The last thing he would ever hear, John's voice. The context, even though this once great man tried to ignore it, it was impossible. Those word's. But none of that mattered, despite hearing a clattering at the door, he had already gone.  
  
“Sherlock. I'm not sorry. I will /never/ love you, I will /never/ help you again. Goodbye, you soulless monster of a man.”


End file.
